The next morning, the schedule hadn't changed.
Same hours. Same routines. Same prison disguised as perfection.
But something in me had.
I woke up before the alarm. Not because I wanted to impress them, but because sleep had become a stranger. My dreams were too loud. My chest too heavy.
I stared at the ceiling until the sun peeked through the velvet curtains, painting gold on the walls that felt like they belonged to someone else. Then I got up, brushed my teeth, and wore the pale blue dress Claiborne picked out the night before. She liked muted colors. She said they made me look "softer."
More breakable.
I didn't argue. What was the point?
At breakfast, Claiborne praised my poise like I was a dog who'd finally learned to sit.
"Better," she said while buttering her toast. "Yesterday's slouch was inexcusable. Damien agrees."
My stomach twisted. So he had watched the surveillance footage.
Of course he had.
After the meal, the tutor came in for etiquette lessons. Another hour of posture drills, formal address rehearsals, and memorizing cutlery placement like it was the gospel. Then ballet, where the instructor corrected every spin and stretch like I was auditioning for a role I never wanted.
And through it all—I smiled.
A perfect, painted smile. Just like Claiborne taught me.
Until just after four.
I was reading in the parlor when Damien walked in without warning.
No guards. No staff. Just him.
He didn't speak right away. Just walked over to the chaise lounge where I sat, closed the book in my lap, and met my eyes.
"You're quiet today," he said.
I blinked once. Twice. "I didn't know I was allowed to speak."
His lips curved, but it wasn't amusement—it was that cold satisfaction he wore like a suit. "You're learning."
He turned the book over in his hand. Pride and Prejudice.
"You like stories about women resisting men?" he asked, flipping a page without looking at it.
I said nothing.
He crouched in front of me, arms resting on his knees.
"I gave you a home. Food. Protection. And this"—he held up the schedule, now slightly creased at the edges—"is all I ask in return."
I stared at him. "You're not asking."
He leaned closer, eyes cold. "You're right. I'm not."
I should've stayed quiet. Obedient. Pretty.
But something snapped.
"What do you get out of this?" I whispered. "Does controlling me make you feel powerful? Or are you just trying to punish someone who's already broken?"
His jaw tensed.
For a moment, I thought he might strike me.
But he didn't.
He stood, tucked the schedule into his back pocket, and turned toward the door. Then paused.
"You're not broken," he said without turning around.
"Not yet."
Then he walked away.
And for the first time since I entered this house—I didn't cry.
I just sat there, fists clenched, a fire I hadn't felt in days beginning to burn again.
Not rebellion.
Not revenge.
Something colder.
Something quieter.
I wasn't going to survive by fighting him outright.
I had to learn his rules.
And then I'd twist them.
Bend them.
Break him with them.
Because if Damien Lancaster thought I was learning obedience…
He hadn't seen what I could do with patience.